


maybe it's the crazy that i'd miss

by plainjane8



Series: on your knees (when you look at me) [3]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Texting, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Texting, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24376669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plainjane8/pseuds/plainjane8
Summary: Brad’s been with the Royal Marines for three weeks when the first text comes in.It’s a picture of socked feet propped up on the coffee table in Brad’s living room, Brad’s tv frozen on a cat litter commercial in the background. There’s an empty coffee mug on the table and a hole starting at the big toe of the left sock.Brad never offered his home up to Ray and Ray has never asked. Brad’s door is open to open to all of Bravo and it’s clear that Ray knows that even if they’ve never spoken the sentiment aloud.
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Ray Person
Series: on your knees (when you look at me) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739812
Comments: 30
Kudos: 85





	1. Part 1

Brad’s been with the Royal Marines for three weeks when the first text comes in.

It’s a picture of socked feet propped up on the coffee table in Brad’s living room, Brad’s tv frozen on a cat litter commercial in the background. There’s an empty coffee mug on the table and a hole starting at the big toe of the left sock.

Brad never offered his home up to Ray and Ray has never asked. Brad’s door is open to open to all of Bravo and it’s clear that Ray knows that even if they’ve never spoken the sentiment aloud.

_Get your feet off the table._

_SIR YES SIR!!_

Brad rolls his eyes and throws his cell phone into a spare drawer in his office’s desk. Ray is a problem for later.

⫸⫸⫸

Brad doesn’t pull his phone back out for several hours but his unavailability doesn’t seem to have stopped Ray.

_who da fuck uses a period in a text anyway_

_also_

_who leaves the fucking country with bread still on the counter and yogurt in the fridge_

_YEEESss found the good stuf_

The last text message comes with a picture of the kitchen cabinet above the fridge where Brad keeps the emergency liquor.

_Be honest Ray, did you have to_

_use a stepstool to overcome your_

_pre-pubescent genetics in order_

_to reach the cabinet?_

_FUK U BRADLEY_

_i may have climbed the counter_

Brad laughs out loud at the thought of Ray scampering onto the counter by the sink to reach over the fridge, probably cursing and yelling to himself the whole time.

_Drink the Jose, don’t touch the Clase Azul_

_Idefk wut chas azul is homes_

_oh shit did u get me the goOood stuff_

_ill buy u mor promise_

_Are you gonna explain Ray?_

_said ill buy u more don’t worry princess_

_Ray_

_It’s 10AM_

_You’re in my house_

_Climbing the cabinets and chugging good_

_tequila like a teenager left alone for the_

_first time_

_Care to explain_

Brad’s phone is conspicuously silent for far too long and Brad absolutely does not consider back pedaling. He does however start packing up his belongings, there’s no reason to continue sitting in his office, waiting for his phone to buzz. Unlike Ray, he’s not a little boy, waiting for his crush’s prom invitation.

_got the keys from ur mom. shes too good for u_

His mother has always been a push over.

⫸⫸⫸

The texts from Ray continue to stream in over the following weeks. Brad responds when we can, regardless of the time difference. Ray’s never been one to keep regular hours and if he’s going to badger Brad at all times of the day, there’s no reason Brad can’t return the favor.

It’s casual and funny in a way Ray hasn’t been before. Before now—hell before Brad left for fucking England—Ray’s always been _a lot_. Almost too much. Something to handle. To deal with and manage. Now he’s just a quiet buzz from a continent away. It’s good for Brad. It’s fine.

From what Brad can tell, Ray’s still staying at his place. Brad doesn’t ask again and Ray doesn’t offer anything up. He does however provide Brad with a running commentary of every single one of his opinions of virtually every belonging in Brad’s home. Down to carpets or lack thereof.

_k homes so i kno ur all warrior prince or watevs_

_but did u have to go with hardwood flrs_

_this shit is HARDR_

_It is called that for a reason._

_K but like…have u ever tried to kneel on this shit. my knees cant take this abuse BRADLEY_

Brad stills, coffee in hand halfway between his mouth and the table below. He exhales and sets the coffee down carefully before he responds.

_You didn’t complain last time._

_that was b4 i knew u had carpets in the bedrom_

_FUCKING ICEMAN_

The next thing that comes in is a video and Brad looks up sharply, assessing his surroundings before he clicks on it.

The last time Brad opened a video from Ray it was of a man—Brad assumes one of Ray’s whiskey tango brother-uncles—screaming while attempting to either wrestle or penetrate a pig.

Ron’s away from his desk so Brad turns the volume on his phone off and clicks into the video. It’s only ten seconds long and it shows Ray’s bare toes wiggling in the plush gray carpet in Brad’s bedroom.

It’s only then the thought even occurs to Brad.

_Where have you been sleeping?_

Ray responds with another picture. This time it’s of Brad’s couch, multiple pillows strewn on the floor around it with a single throw blanket tossed over an arm.

Brad doesn’t think, he just types.

_Take the bed. ~~I’m not using it anyway.~~_

_i might get ~cooties~ on it_

_Take the bed Ray._

Brad sets his phone face down in the desk drawer where he’s been keeping it and turns to where Ron has just come back into the office.

“Reports almost done.”

Brad doesn’t check his phone again for another ten hours but when he does there’s just a single message from Ray. It’s another picture. Brad’s bed.

The sheets are rumpled, two pillows indented at the top of the bed, another tossed halfway down the middle of the edge, threatening to tumble over the side at any moment.

Brad doesn’t wonder.

He doesn’t wonder which side of the bed Ray slept on, or if he drools in his sleep. He doesn’t wonder and he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t want to know if Ray jerked himself off before he fell asleep or if it was right after he woke up. Brad doesn’t wonder if Ray’s knuckles would turn white if he gripped the headboard as hard as he could.

Brad doesn’t want to know so he doesn’t ask.

Instead, he sends a picture of his own bed, white sheets tucked in tight, pillows fluffed and neat. He sends the picture without a second thought and collapses face first into his bed, intent on sleeping off his week of paperwork bullshit after field training went sideways. Even in a new country, the bullshit is the same.

⫸⫸⫸

Brad drinks a little too much when he meets up with Ron on Saturday night. That’s his excuse and it’s a damn good one if you ask him. For a bunch of pompous monarchist dicksucks, they have pretty good beer. So, he drinks a little too much. That’s the only reason.

_wheres ur lube_

_don’t use it_

_wtf man. ill buy u mor_

_found it. nothin special wats ur prob_

_Ray i said no_

_U didn’t ask permisssion_

_Permish? ur a control frek u no_ _dat????_

_No no not for the lube_

_not 4 the lube????_

_BrAdLLeYy u frekk_

There’s a lull in Ray’s typing and Brad’s stomach is in his throat, wondering if he finally pushed too far. Wondering if there’s a dignified way to backpedal the fuck out of this mess. His phone buzzes before he can think up anything smoother than _too drunk, sorry_.

_can i use ur lube to jack off_

Brad’s fingers absolutely do not shake as he types out a response, trying to determine if Ray’s misunderstanding is deliberate or ignorant.

_you kno i dont care about the lube_

The response comes immediately and a smile pulls at the corner of Brad’s mouth.

_i kno_

_then ask nicely_

_plz brad can i jack it in ur bed_

Brad exhales long and slow and the for the first time in _months_ , he wishes he was back in California. Wishes he wasn’t sitting in a corner booth in a bar with Ron in _fucking England._

_wash the sheets wen ur done_

⫸⫸⫸

It isn’t intentional but it very quickly turns into A Thing. The texts roll in, unpredictable but steady. All hours of the day, even despite the time difference. Brad wonders what Ray does when he doesn’t answer right away. Wonders how worked up he gets if Brad’s asleep or working, making him wait. Ray asks for permission every time now, sometimes Brad asks where Ray is, sometimes he doesn’t, Brad never says no but sometimes he’s away from his phone and Ray has no choice but to wait.

The context varies but the pattern is always the same. Until it isn’t.

_can i??????_

_Where?_

_cohuch_

_**couch_

_Plzz_

_Yes, clean up when you’re done._

The phone buzzes in Brad’s hand before he can slip it back into his pocket.

_want 2 c??_

And then Brad’s phone is vibrating in his hand again, quick. Before Brad could get a chance to type out a _nah, I’m good_ or a _yes please_.

It’s a picture and Brad clicks it open before he can think better of it. Ray’s spread out on the couch lengthwise, shorts tented up and legs spread wide. His torso isn’t even in the shot but Brad would bet anything that he’s smirking, tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth. The fingers of one of Ray’s hands are curled into his thigh, as if he’d gone to reach for himself during the picture and thought better of it. And Brad wants.

He _wants_ with an unfamiliar desperation and a sense of maddening helplessness.

Brad wants to respond. He wants do order Ray into the bedroom. Wants to order him to send more pictures. Wants to see him kneeling in Brad’s room. _Kneeling for Brad_. Brad _wants._

But Brad’s countries and oceans and time zones away.

So, he shuts his phone off entirely knowing that Ray already has permission, knowing that it’s more about the control than the sex. Knowing that he needs to get a handle on this. A handle on himself before it gets any messier.

Brad turns off his phone but his hands don’t stop shaking for hours.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brad gets away with leaving his phone off for 48 hours, hidden in the kitchen junk drawer.
> 
> It’s hard not to feel like a coward when he fishes it out from under a pile of take away menus before work. He turns it on, slips it into his pocket and leaves the house without checking for messages first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was supposed to be a two-parter. Now it's going to be a three-parter even though this chapter is painfully brief. My instinct is to apologize but *shrugs* even brief is better than nothing.
> 
> But we're finally getting somewhere. And hopefully that somewhere is a place where Brad doesn't have his head up his ass...
> 
> Also my headcanon is forever that Ray Person texts like an illiterate child and Brad texts like your dad. I just call it how I see it folks.

Brad gets away with leaving his phone off for 48 hours, hidden in the kitchen junk drawer.

It’s hard not to feel like a coward when he fishes it out from under a pile of take away menus before work. He turns it on, slips it into his pocket and leaves the house without checking for messages first.

And the part that weighs on Brad—the part that he feels most acutely, most painfully—is the messages that _don’t_ flood in.

There’s a voicemail from Brad’s mom and a few notifications from some dumb meditation app that Poke put on his phone when he wasn’t looking.

The soothing banner notification seems to mock him. _Did you stop and take a deep breath today?_

But that’s it.

That’s all.

There are no missed calls from Ray, no texts. Not a word after Brad declined to respond to Ray’s picture.

Brad sends him mom a text, ignores the stupid meditation notifications and shuts the phone back off before he can succumb to temptation.

He wants to look at the picture Ray sent again. Wants to study it like a map. Memorize the details until he can recall them effortlessly. Brad _wants_.

Wants to know what Ray’s doing. If he’s buzzing around like a strung-out junkie. If he needs to be held down. Brad wants to know what he does when Brad’s not there. He wants to know whose fingers get to squeeze and tighten on Ray neck in place of Brad’s.

Brad wants to know who gets to feel Ray pliant and easy beneath them.

And so, he does what he does best.

Brad shuts off his phone and doesn’t think about Ray, Ray’s picture, or the way Ray looks _kneeling_ in Brad’s home for the next 18 hours.

⫸⫸⫸

The next week is spent the same way. Brad keeps his phone off for long stretches. Brief enough that no one else seems to notice but far longer than usual.

If his phone is off, then he can’t text Ray and Ray can’t text him. He can’t look back over the texts and pictures that Ray has sent like a teenage girl nostalgic for summer vacation. It’s a perfect system.

Until it’s not.

Until Friday comes and Brad ends up back at the bar and it feels too similar. But entirely different.

Brad still hasn’t heard from Ray. But he has heard his new orders.

Brad hasn’t heard from Ray in a week and now he’s running out of time.

His first three beers go down quick and Brad’s cellphone sits on the counter of the bar, sticky with spilled beer and mocking him.

He doesn’t pick his phone up until Ron’s slips away to the john and Brad types out a text, brief and quick. Direct.

_I’m heading back to Iraq._

The response comes back quick. Quicker than Brad probably deserves.

_fukk homes. soon???_

_Two weeks._

Brad watches the ellipses pop up and disappear three times before they disappear for good. No message pops up in their place.

Brad’s fingers hover above the screen and he wavers. He sets the phone down, takes a long pull from his beer and picks the phone back up. Sets it down again, finishes his beer and picks it up again.

_You haven’t asked all week._

_Are you going to need an SO?_

Ray doesn’t answer for a long seven minutes and Brad remembers the warm weight of Ray kneeling at Brad’s feet. The way he drooled on the couch cushions in his sleep. The way he went loose and _submissive._

_idek wtf 2 say brad. i need a lot mor than a fuckin SO_

_i kno u kno why i haven’t asked_

Brad’s breath catches a little and he tries not to choke on the foam of his beer. He deliberately doesn’t address Ray’s first message, brain too hung up on the second.

_Does that mean you waited?_

_FUKKKKK no homes_

_just cuz ur fucked doesnt mean i have to be_

Disappointment tastes sharp and metallic. Like iron, like blood.

Brad shouldn’t have expected Ray to wait. He shouldn’t have expected Ray to know all the unwritten rules of this game. The rules that only exist in Brad’s own head.

_i kno ur gonna pussy ur way out of this but we need to fuckin talk homes_

_b4 you fuck back off to play in sand land_

It’s a stupid idea. Clearly the exposure to Ray, even through minimal telecommunications, have impaired Brad’s judgment ability.

It’s a bad idea. Brad knows it’s a bad idea before he asks, as he’s typing away at the stupid little keys on his phone, as he’s hitting the send button and even afterwards when he’s staring at his own message, taunting him at the bottom of the screen. It’s a bad fucking idea.

_Book a flight for next weekend._

_That’s not a request, Ray._

_fuck u_

Half an hour later an email comes in. A copy of Ray’s flight confirmation—inbound scheduled for next Saturday morning with an outbound flight on afternoon Sunday. Brad saves the email and shuts his phone back off.


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray has a new shoulder tattoo. Dark swirls peek out of the neckline of his t-shirt and more swirls end just below the sleeve. He’s wearing oversized sunglasses even though it’s about to rain. He looks like he’s gained back some of the weight that OIF stole from him.
> 
> He looks good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit.ly/BlackLivesAction
> 
> I'm sure that many reader and authors alike would agree, things are fucking weird right now. And writing feels harder than ever. Thankfully this chapter basically wrote itself.
> 
> There will likely only be one more fic in this series but that doesn't mean the GK will end by any means.
> 
> If anyone wants to talk (about GK or the horrors that real life are) I'm on tumblr under the same name.
> 
> Stay safe<3
> 
> EDITED on 6/14 for formatting purposes.

Ray has a new shoulder tattoo. Dark swirls peek out of the neckline of his t-shirt and more swirls end just below the sleeve. He’s wearing oversized sunglasses even though it’s about to rain. He looks like he’s gained back some of the weight that OIF stole from him.

He looks _good_.

“Ray,” Brad nods at him on the sidewalk where his work car sits idling in the pick-up zone.

Ray looks him over—bottom to top—slow enough that if Brad were a lesser man he’d be tempted to squirm.

Ray nods back when he finally meets Brad’s eyes and then he’s stepping in close with a hand gripping Brad’s elbow.

In hindsight, Brad realizes that Ray probably meant to lean in for a pat on the shoulder or some backwoods bastardization of a handshake, maybe even just a squeeze of his arm and a friendly nod.

That’s not how it goes. Brad wants to rationalize it away. Call it a force of habit, call it an old habit. Except.

Ray leans in to grip Brad’s elbow and Brad uses it as a way to drag him in closer. He’s leaning in and down too fast and his forehead clunks into Ray’s with a soft _thwack_.

And they just stand there on the sidewalk of the pick up zone at Heathrow at nine thirty in the morning, foreheads pressed together and forearms clasped.

Brad would love to call it a force of habit, chalk it up to second nature and muscle memory.

Except Brad doesn’t greet _anyone_ like this.

He doesn’t stand on the sidewalk of airports in foreign countries embracing another grown man like a fucking pansy.

Ray’s breath on Brad’s cheeks smells like cherry cough syrup and his hair tickles where it’s crushed against his own hairline.

Brad pulls back, physically takes a step back and Ray just looks up at him.

“Please tell me this tea-drinking monarchist hellhole of a country has hash browns.”

⫸⫸⫸

Ray is uncharacteristically quiet on the drive from the airport back to the flat Brad has been calling home. Brad tries not to let it become a point of concern. Despite everything he does to the contrary, Ray is a fucking adult and if he didn’t want to come, he didn’t have to get on the plane. He doesn’t _have_ to be here.

They talk about Brad’s new guys and the crazy stupid training exercises the RM have him pulling over breakfast—or maybe it’s dinner for Ray. They talk about how Ray’s developed an almost dangerous addiction to cherry lollipops in an effort to quit smoking. They talk about who from Bravo they’ve heard from and who they haven’t.

When Ray ends up falling asleep on the couch, finally succumbing to jetlag and the time difference, it feels like they’ve discussed almost everything except what matters.

Brad wants to know if Ray’s still been staying at his place. Wants to know what Ray wants. Wants answers before he’s back in a desert hellhole just trying to keep himself and his guys alive.

Brad waits until the stir fry he’s mixing on the stove is almost done before he wakes Ray.

“Person!” Brad raises his voice in his best imitation of Sixta and it’s worth it to see Ray jolt up and off the couch to land in a sprawl on the floor.

The eat on the couch, tiny coffee table quickly littered in bowls of food and beer bottles.

Ray brings it up first and Brad’s first thought is that Ray really deserves more credit than Brad gives him.

“So, two weeks huh?”

“Just one now,” Ray exhales and it sounds louder than usual. Ray stands from the couch and crosses the room to where his backpack has been discarded on the floor. He’s starts talking while he’s rifling through it and Brad misses the first few words.

“—so I thought you’d want it back. But in hindsight I guess I could’ve just given it back to your mom.”

Ray produces a key from his hand and sets it on the coffee table and Brad just stares at it. Then his brain catches up and he realizes he’s looking at his own key. Ray’s key to Brad’s home.

“Ray, I didn’t ask for my key back and I sure as shit didn’t ask you to fly halfway around the world to hand deliver it,” Brad’s rolling his eyes before he can even help himself.

But Ray’s rolling his eyes right back and even if he’ll never admit it even under duress, Brad has _missed_ Ray’s bullshit.

“Bradddddley,” Ray drags his name out in a way that’s probably supposed to sound imposing but just comes out sounding tired instead, “you made it quite clear—”

Brad wraps a hand around Ray’s wrist and he falls silent. It doesn’t last long this time though.

“Oh, fuck you, Brad” Ray’s tugging his wrist away and dropping heavy onto the couch next to Brad, “That’s not fucking fair and you know it. You can’t just use your Neanderthal grabby-hands as a distraction all the time. Not when I’m trying to give you _your fuckin key_ back.”

Brad curls his hands around his empty beer bottle in an effort not to reach back out for Ray.

“Jesus _fuck_ , do you ever stop fucking talking? I don’t want my fucking key and I sure as shit don’t want you to move.”

_I don’t want you to leave_.

Brad can’t say it, can’t form the words on his tongue, can’t dare let them see the light of day.

“Fucking hell, Ray. Why would I let you fly out just to give me a key?” Brad can feel himself growing frustrated with their miscommunications. With all the things he wants and all the things he can’t ask for.

Brad stands from the couch only to sit right back down.

Ray runs a hand through his hair and it’s the longest Brad’s ever seen it. He _desperately_ wants to pull it. Wants to work all the product out of it until it’s loose and pliable, like the rest of Ray.

Brad inhales and he counts his exhale, staring straight ahead.

“Keep the key. Use it or don’t—that’s up to you. I’m not trying to trade—” Brad doesn’t know how to explain, “You can keep the key. You can use it. You don’t have to kneel to use it.”

Brad feels like he’s underwater. Feels like he’s speaking a different language. Apparently, it’s the right dialect of whiskey-tango backwoods bullshit cause when he looks over at Ray, Ray’s grinning like an idiot.

“Shee-it Brad, if I didn’t know better I would think you’re going soft on me.” Ray’s laughing a little and Brad lets the corner of his mouth creep upwards in some semblance of a smile.

Ray’s not done though.

“And what if I want to keep the key and I still want to kneel?”

Brad stops smiling and so does Ray.

“Ray, I—” Brad start and stops five different sentences in his head before he manages to string one together that he’s willing to speak aloud, “Ray, I only have a week left.”

And for all that Ray is a fucking idiot, an overgrown child with the mouth of a teenager, he’s always had Brad’s six. Always _known_ him.

“How about a compromise?” Ray’s slipping off the couch to kneel next to Brad’s bare feet, smiling like he knows he’s already won. “I kneel now and then you give me a call when your ready to get your key back.”

And it’s a bad idea. It’s all been a bad idea. Since the first time Brad put his hands on Ray. Since the very beginning. But fuck if Brad doesn’t _want_.

Brad’s hard in his jeans, has been since the second Ray dropped to the floor but he knows there’s only so many things he can have. There are only so many things he’ll allow himself the pain of losing.

“How do you want it? I don’t have any ropes here. There might be something in the kitchen but I’m not too optimistic.”

Brad’s trying to will his dick into submission while he runs a mental inventory of his supplies. British military-provided flats don’t usually come bondage-equipped.

“Just hold me down” Ray looks up at him, “pretty please.”

Brad rolls his eyes and his fingers flex against his jeans. He _wants_. Wants to pull Ray’s hair now that it’s longer. Wants to push Ray’s face down into his lap until he’s choking. Until they’re both choking. Wants to bite bruises over Ray’s new tattoo. Brad _wants_.

But this isn’t the moment, isn’t how he wants this to go.

So instead he arranges Ray on the floor the way he wants him, facing away from Brad seated between Brad’s legs. He prods at the muscles of Ray’s back until he sits up straight and tall.

And then he leans in, hovering over Ray to wrap both hands around Ray’s throat. Curls his fingers just enough that if Ray keeps sitting up straight, Brad’s hands will just rest on his throat. But if he slouches, if he leans in and wants it, Brad’s hands will be a tight, solid pressure.

Ray droops down, testing Brad’s grip and when Brad’s fingers tighten to provide resistance, Ray actually shudders.

“ _Fuck_ Ray.”

Brad’s voice cracks and it feels like he’s swallowing sand. Feels like he’s the one on his knees.

Ray doesn’t make a sound but he reaches a hand up to lay it over Brads’. Pressing his fingers on top of Brads’ where they all rest on Ray’s throat.

They sit like that for a long time. Long enough that Brad’s fingers start to tingle.

His back aches from hunching over Ray and when he straightens up to stretch, Ray moves for the first time.

He drops his forehead to Brad’s knee and Brad’s leg feels _so warm_ where Ray’s nose and mouth and pressed. Ray bites into the meat of Brad’s thigh hard enough to make him hiss and his hands drop from their place on Ray’s neck.

His fingers are still tingling and it feels odd that they are empty. Wrong even.

There’s a hot wet mark from Ray’s mouth on Brad’s jeans and Brad’s hands feel so empty.

And then Ray’s popping up from his place on the floor, shaking out his arms and legs. They must ache from sitting. Brad should’ve offered him a pillow, should’ve let him sit on the couch instead.

“Brad, can I jerk off in your bathroom?”

The question catches Brad off guard but when he looks, Ray is hard in his pants. Brad almost thinks he can see a small damp spot on the right side.

Brad clears his throat, “Yeah, you know where it is.”

Ray leaves the room and Brad stays on the couch, fists clenching and unclenching on his lap. Palms feeling acutely _empty_.

He only makes it two minutes before he’s striding across the room, nudging open the bathroom door to find Ray.

Ray looks over his shoulder and he only looks mildly surprised.

Brad crowds up behind Ray, bringing an arm tight across his collar bones and he feels Ray sink some of his weight back into Brad.

When Brad hooks his chin over Ray’s shoulder, Ray’s got a hand down cupping his balls and his other quickly comes to grip Brad’s forearm.

Ray’s dick is long but more slender than Brad’s and it curves up and to the right where it bobs up near Ray’s stomach. Brad wants to know what it tastes like.

Brad watches over Ray’s shoulder. Watches as Ray fists himself, light but quick. Watches as his twists at the head.

Brad keeps his arm firm across Ray’s chest and gives him something to lean into, something to push against. Brad sets his teeth into the back of Ray’s neck and he watches.

Watches as Ray gasps and shakes and spills over his own hand.

Brad watches as Ray cleans himself up. Watches as Ray face plants into Brad’s bed without asking, sprawling face down in the middle.

Brad wonders if his bed here smells like his bed at home. Wonders if Ray would even notice.

Brad watches as Ray seems to immediately drop off into sleep and he sets an alarm early enough to get Ray back to the airport in time for his disgustingly early flight out.

Brad sets his alarm, sets his watch on the nightstand and exhales.

It feels a lot like coming up for air.

**Author's Note:**

> We're finally almost getting somewhere folks! This is gonna be a two-parter because....just because.
> 
> A couple of notes:  
> 1\. I play kind of fast and loose with time zones here. I did look up the time difference between London and California and sometimes I stick with it here and sometimes I don't. *casual shrug* Sorry!  
> 2\. I have no idea how realistic it would have been for Brad to have frequent and simple access to a personal cell while abroad.  
> 3\. I have very little knowledge of what exactly Brad was doing while abroad which is why there's only a few mentions of office work and "training exercises." idfk  
> 4\. I don't know when the second part will be ready for consumption but I'm hoping it will be sooner rather than later.  
> 5\. Typos in the text messages are intentional and meant to reflect either the character's mind frames or personalities.  
> 6\. I tried to make it very clear but in the event that I didn't succeed, Brad is on the left and Ray is on the right.  
> 7\. Happy Memorial Day and thank you for reading!


End file.
